Night Four
by BJXCBFOREVER
Summary: Mike does as the Phone Guy says: he checks the backroom. He just doesn't like what he finds. Or, rather…doesn't find.


**Night Four**

 **I don't own Five Nights at Freddy's. Scott Cawthon does.**

 **Summary: Mike does as the Phone Guy says: he checks the backroom. He just doesn't like what he finds. Or, rather…** _ **doesn't**_ **find.**

 **Author's note: Kinda basically a 'how my Mike Schmidt reacted to Phone Guy's death' one-shot. Cause who doesn't like sad fic, huh?**

 **Warnings: swearing, death mentioned frequently (obviously).**

…

Mike Schmidt liked Phone Guy. Well, about as much as someone who'd only heard another's voice really could.

Mike didn't know Phone Guy personally. He didn't even know his real name - he had called him 'Phone Guy' since the phone call on his second night. It wasn't planned at all, nor particularly thought out. It just sprung to Mike's lips and it stuck.

Phone Guy. He was Phone Guy.

Mike supposed he could ask the boss what his name was and find out where the guy lived so he could go and thank him. Why not, right? Phone Guy had saved his life from the things in this hellhole - or had, at the very least, given him the tips he needed to keep himself alive. He deserved a thanks for that, even a medal if Mike could get him one. Then again, the boss didn't seem too up for telling Mike about previous night guards and what they had had to go through when they were in his position. He'd probably never tell Mike who Phone Guy was.

One might say Mike was making a big fuss over nothing, but he thought otherwise. Phone Guy had actually taken some time out of his shifts to record messages to keep Mike - someone who he had never met and someone he didn't even know existed - alive and well. He was also the only human voice - or human _anything_ \- in there with Mike while he was surrounded by killer robots that wanted to stuff him into a suit. Phone Guy could have died at any point during that time, yet he still chose to prioritise Mike's life. The guy was a saint in Mike's book, so he had to thank him for that.

Like anyone who had only heard a person's voice on the phone more than once, Mike thought up theories on what Phone Guy was like. On the first night, after the call had ended, his first little theory was that the niceness Phone Guy had was just an act. He didn't care what happened to Mike; someone had offered him an extra couple of bucks to go through some information about the place so the new guy wouldn't screw anything up. Mike had left work feeling agitated under the levels of confusion and fear that night, though the voice had provided some comfort nonetheless. It was on night number two that Mike decided this guy was okay and, on night three, Mike found himself actually looking forward to the call. Somewhere during those calls, Mike felt himself become calmer while listening to the man's voice; his subconscious recognising that this man's friendliness was no act. He was genuinely trying to save Mike. Of course, he'd tried to cover up the whole 'you're gonna die' thing. Mike imagined that was a legal implement to the whole situation.

From his voice, Mike got the image of a guy who was always smiling. He imagined a guy whom everyone liked and no one had grudges against. He was the kind of guy who would do anything for anyone. Walked old ladies across the street; donated blood without a second thought; worked part-time at a homeless shelter. Probably donated all his money to charity too, bless him. He could imagine Phone Guy was a lot braver than he was, considering Bonnie had made him piss himself on his first night. Phone Guy had probably never done that. Probably never done anything illegal either.

Yeah. Phone Guy was a much better man than Mike Schmidt.

Mike could admit getting attached to Phone Guy, despite never having met him. He was human; during the night, that was what Mike really needed. Considering Mike had a long history of illegal stunts in his time and everyone had given up on him (except for his poor, sick mother), it was refreshing to have someone who believed in him. Sure, Phone Guy's assurance that he'd be fine at this was mostly used to cheer him up - since Phone Guy had about as much of an idea as to who Mike was as Mike had about who Phone Guy was - but it still counted. He was finally hearing a comforting, _human_ voice that wasn't his mother's. It was a start.

And that was why, after this shift was done, Mike was going to look him up in the restaurant's employee files and track him down. He was going to go to his house, reveal himself as the night guard after him and offer him a drink at that bar just around the corner from Mike's house. Best beer in the world, there. Phone Guy would love it; Mike would make sure.

 _He deserves it, after all,_ Mike thought as he took out the key the manager had left with him and unlocked the door to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. _Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna get him a drink._

Unusual for a man in his line of work, Mike made no hurry in getting inside the restaurant and locking the door behind him to keep - ahem - certain things from getting out. He didn't want to be here. Who _wanted_ to be here? No one! Not during the night, anyway. He forced himself to keep at it, though; mum's medicine wasn't going to pay for itself.

He reached his office pretty quickly; it was right by the door. Mike walked inside, took off his cap and ran a hand through his hair, then placed his hat back on. His uniform was wet; it was raining outside tonight. He brushed raindrops off of the epaulettes on his shoulders and grabbed his monitor from his desk before checking the clock on the wall. He had ten minutes before his shift started. Plenty of time to get himself settled (as much as one could when they were locked in a pizzeria with killer animatronics).

Mike stepped out of the office and walked down the west hallway enough to see the stage, where Bonnie, Freddy and Chica stood - in that order. Mike waved at them, knowing they wouldn't wave back (though he was sure they knew he was there), "Hey, guys! Just wanted to say: bring it on tonight!" He flashed a thumbs-up, then leaned toward Pirate's Cove, "Y'hear that, Foxy?! Yeah? Good." He turned and walked back the way he'd come, feeling Freddy Fazbear's eyes on his back. _I am ready for Freddy._ "And if any _yellow bears_ wanna come out and play - I'm ready for ya!"

This job screwed him up. The animatronics felt more like a bother than they did something he should fear. Every time he entered a room at home, he had to switch on the lights and check left and right. It was subconscious, most of the time. He could swear he heard Freddy laughing at him sometimes, too.

As he sat down in his chair after having a good stretch, he glanced at the phone. What would Phone Guy tell him tonight? He'd already gone over how to keep Foxy at bay and to check his lights all the time. Not much left to it, was there? Maybe it was a motivational message for him, since this _was_ his fourth night after all. Almost a whole five! He was doing pretty well for himself.

Mike cracked his knuckles as the clock finally struck twelve o'clock, midnight, and the game was on. Instead of going straight for the monitor, he sat and waited for the phone to ring. It was only twelve; the animatronics gave him some time before they really became trouble. Besides, no night was right without Phone Guy's call. So, Mike sat and waited until the phone rang. The sound no longer made him jump; he looked forward to it now. "Alright, Phone Guy…" Mike muttered to the machine as he reached over to pick up the receiver, "Whatcha gotta say to me tonight…?" He pressed it to his ear and listened as the man's voice picked up with that familiar greeting that made Mike sigh through his nose.

" _Hello, hello! Hey! Hey, wow, day four. I knew you could do it."_

There it was. The reassurance Mike needed. He'd wave his hand a little to say hi, not wanting to interrupt the man, but something was off. _Phone Guy, you sound different…why do you sound…not happy…?_

" _Uh, hey, listen. I may not be around to send you a message tomorrow."_

Mike jumped as banging almost cut Phone Guy off. He instinctively looked over at his own left door, then realised he'd never closed it and Foxy wasn't yet a threat. He turned his attention back to the phone call, leaning forward in his chair and neglecting the monitor in his left hand. The worst case scenario was coming to mind, but Mike didn't want to believe it. _Why? Why will you not be around to send me a message tomorrow? Why not, Phone Guy? Why not?!_

" _It's - It's been a bad night here. For me."_

The banging continued, making Mike's eyes widen.

" _Um. I-I'm kinda glad that I recorded my messages for you -"_ He cleared his throat, _" - uh, when I did."_

 _Me too._

" _Uh - hey, do me a favour."_

 _Sure, anything._ The banging continued. Phone Guy's tone was making Mike feel sick.

" _Maybe sometime, uh, you could check inside those suits i-in the backroom?"_

At least seven bangs on the door. Mike's heart raced.

" _I'm gonna try to hold out until someone…checks. Maybe it won't be so bad."_

 _No, no, no. Don't say that. What're you saying? You're gonna be fine. You have to be._

" _Uh, I-I-I-I always wondered what was in all those empty heads…back there."_

Mike jumped out of his skin as Freddy's song started to play. He looked over at his left door to check for the glowing face of Fazbear, then remembered it wasn't in his night. It was in Phone Guy's. Mike moved his eyes away from there, his breath and heart rate starting to quicken with each second that went by, "No…no…"

" _You know…_ "

Mike almost flung the phone away from his ear when the hoarse, pained moaning came through. His eyes hurt - they were so _wide_ \- as he tried to listen; they stung and his vision blurred. His hand shook so much, the receiver was having a hard time staying pressed to his ear, "No…no… _no…no…!"_

"… _Oh, no…_ "

"NOOOO!" Mike screamed, which quickly dissolved into one of fear. He jumped back in his chair and threw the phone down as a deep, penetrating shriek cut off the banging and the moaning and the song and, most importantly, Phone Guy. Static was hissing away from the receiver dangling from its cord, then a click and it was all over.

In the present time, the night guard wasn't dead. He wasn't at the hands of the animatronic characters. He wasn't glad to have left messages on the phone. He was Mike Schmidt and he was pinned to the back of his chair by his own fear, hand gripping the arm tightly and left thumb almost cracking the screen of the monitor. Mike's breathing came out rushed as he hyperventilated; a panic attack forming quickly in his lungs. His blue eyes had widened so much they hurt and tears were flowing down his cheeks and his bottom lip was quivering, barely keeping his gritted teeth hidden. He didn't know what to say or think. Everything was blank.

Phone Guy…he couldn't be…could he? There was just no way. No way he could be…the word didn't register in Mike's head. He gulped down the vomit he could feel rising in his throat, continuing his staring contest with the air. His body could do nothing else.

Phone Guy had actually tried to reassure him, though. That was just like him, wasn't it? Reassure the poor, scared night guard that everything was going to be okay, even when they both knew it wasn't going to be. Even with those murderers right outside his doors, the poor Phone Guy had actually tried to tell Mike everything would be okay. Any other person would've cracked under the pressure of the situation, but Phone Guy hadn't sounded like he'd been crying or anything. Here Mike Schmidt was, blubbering like a baby, and Phone Guy hadn't shed a single tear. A bit panicked, sure, understandable, but not even _crying._ The man had fucking _guts._

Yeah. Phone Guy was a much better man than Mike Schmidt.

The weight of the situation was suddenly on him and Mike looked around frantically, as though looking for the very man he'd just heard _die._ Tears were rivers down his cheeks as his chest heaved and his throat burned with vomit that fought against him. Fingertips numb, head hurting from lack of oxygen, _heart_ hurting from such emotional agony - he didn't know what to do! What was he supposed to do?! He had to go and get Phone Guy! He had to! He had to save him! He had to - He had to - He had to - He had to - He had to -

Clanking metal on his left and suddenly Foxy was lunging toward the open doorway, but a left hand instinctively shot out and hit the door button before he could get in. A right hand picked up the monitor on its own and held it to eyes that looked at the cameras all by themselves. They saw nothing, but it was a start.

After that, the night was a blur. Hands shot out robotically (oh, ha - fucking - ha) whenever one of the murderers got too close, just like Phone Guy had taught him to do, and eyes were trained on the cameras. They were starting to see enough that he knew where Foxy and Freddy were hiding; Bonnie and Chica were easy enough to keep back. He must've looked ridiculous, sitting there with this blank look on his face and his arms stretched out a his side in order to push buttons, but who was around to see him? He wouldn't have cared anyway; his mind was too empty to even _begin_ to think about caring. The tears had dried themselves ages ago and his sobbing had come to a halt for now, but all the pain he was feeling was still in his eyes. He was so _tired_ and _hurt_ and _he needed to get to the backroom._

Mike Schmidt didn't remember his fourth night at Freddy's. He didn't remember shutting the door on Foxy. He didn't remember Chica standing at his window and staring and wasting his power. He didn't remember Bonnie just managing to lean into the office before hastily jumping away in order to avoid the metal door that came flying down. He didn't even remember losing power and looking at Freddy's glowing face with those unseeing and tired eyes; the Toreador March playing to ears that could only hear a man's pleading favour. Two pairs of blue eyes had been in this staring contest; only one pair had actually been _staring_. The chime for six am had rung out.

Usually, Mike would've waited at least five minutes for Freddy and friends to get back to their places, as to not risk getting attacked, but his legs didn't listen to any kind of reasoning his brain may have given out. Mike got up from his chair, trousers wet with sweat and his own urine, and he walked out of the office slowly. He felt so numb and sick; he wanted to faint. Mike didn't even acknowledge Freddy Fazbear walking beside him, intent on going back to his place on the stage. As they walked side-by-side, Freddy's head suddenly turned so quickly it could've snapped right off, servos groaning, and he stared down at Mike hungrily; as though he really was the animal he was supposed to represent and Mike was some juicy steak. Any other time, Mike might've looked right back at him and said something crude, perhaps about how he could go and fuck himself if he thought he was going to kill _this_ night guard, but not this time. Mike simply ignored him, his brain not even processing that Freddy had turned in the first place.

Fazbear and Schmidt parted ways in the main dining area, the robotic bear still watching the guard even as he stepped up onto his stage in between his friends. Like he knew exactly what Mike was going to go looking for. Like he was waiting for him to find what he had done; equivalent to a child showing their parent their new art project on the side of the wall. Sick bastard.

Mike's left hand shakily reached out and pushed the backroom's door open further, enough for the room inside to get a little bit more light. Heads littered the shelves and table; an endoskeleton sat on the table's edge, slumped over. The room stank like hell on its own and it was freezing inside, but Mike stepped in anyway. He didn't know how he'd react to what it was he was trying to find, but like hell was he letting that stop him. His idol and hero needed him; Mike wasn't about to let him down. He'd let people down his whole life - _please just let him help this one. Please, let_ _ **this one**_ _work out._

It took minutes of simply standing there, tired eyes looking around the room to try and find a bloody bear suit or an injured man - _anything. Give him anything to work with._ _ **Please.**_

A voice was suddenly found, though it didn't sound like his own. Too broken. Too wobbly. "…Phone Guy…?"

Nothing.

"…Phone Guy…!"

Nothing. He really didn't like how that endoskeleton was staring at him now.

" _Phone Guy!"_

Nothing.

Mike's heart plummeted right into his intestines, where they fused together to make an awful pain throughout his torso; a horrible numbness that threatened to make his last meal come shooting out through his mouth. His vision blurred all over again and his legs tingled and his hands were cold and his whole body was just so fucking _numb._ His head shook slowly. "…Oh, no… _No…_ "

He was gone. He was dead. Phone Guy was dead. His idol and hero was dead. It was over. Mike had been too late. Too weak. For once in his life, he'd tried to help someone other than himself and his mother and he was _still just too weak._ He'd failed. Phone Guy had asked him to help and he'd failed him. Failed the one human being that had said kind words to him and encouraged him and had faith in him and had just been a _decent human being._ Mike had had nobody like that since his father died, all but seventeen years ago. The Schmidt family had given up on him; uncles and aunts and grandparents and cousins all turned their backs on silly little, troublemaking Mike Schmidt, who did nothing but cause pain and get arrested and make stupid decisions. Who was just a burden to everyone who knew him. Who could go and die in a ditch somewhere and only one would attend his funeral. His mother was stuck with him. She didn't show the disappointment, but Mike knew she felt it. "Be good, Mikey" was just code for "Don't get arrested again, Mike, we can't afford it". He was sure of that. Why else would she say it, if not to warn him not to do anything stupid again? He'd never say the relationship between he and his mum was bad or anything; there was just room for improvement.

But Phone Guy had been different. Fine, he hadn't known Mike at all; didn't know about his past nor his problems or anything like that. Didn't even know his name. But he'd said things to Mike that the man hadn't heard in seventeen years.

" _I know it can be a bit overwhelming, but I'm here to tell you: there's nothing to worry about. Uh, you'll do fine!"_

" _There's really nothing to worry about."_

" _Congrats!"_

" _I'm sure you have everything under control."_

" _Hey, you're doing great!"_

" _See you on the flip side!"_

" _I knew you could do it."_

That kindness from a complete stranger had kept Mike going. Fine, he had thought it was a trick at first, but he knew better now. Phone Guy had been his friend. He had protected him and what had Mike done in return? Absolutely nothing; there was no equivalency. No paying up. No sacrifice.

Mike Schmidt had lost nothing; Phone Guy had lost everything.

 _It just wasn't_ _ **fair…**_

He had only been doing his job. That was all. He _had just been doing his job._ He was so helpless against those things, but he'd still put all his effort into keeping a complete stranger calm and safe. It had worked; Mike was alive. Without Phone Guy, Mike doubted he would've cared if Freddy had killed him. Phone Guy had given him strength to stand and fight again.

He hadn't had anyone like that in seventeen years…

 _I didn't even know his name…_

Mike must've stood there for at least an hour, lost in his own warped thoughts, before the doors to Freddy Fazbear's Pizza were unlocked and the boss and janitor turned up. They must've noticed Mike was missing from the office, as they came and checked the backroom; they found him, just not as they thought they would. "Schmidt," Charlie - a fat man with grey and white hair and a brown suit - piped up angrily, "what the hell are you still doing here? Snooping around, no less! What the _fuck_ -"

He stopped himself when the janitor - a thin man with grey hair around the sides of his head and dressed up in overalls - put a hand out to stop him moving. Hank stared at Mike's back. This kid had been so jumpy and oversensitive from the start; he would've reacted by now. "Mike…are you okay…?"

Mike didn't respond.

"Mike…? Mike…you can go home now…"

Still no response.

"Jesus Christ, Schmidt," Charlie spoke up again, "the fuck is wrong with you? Goddamn, you piss yourself again? _Ha!_ Fuckin' hell…"

Mike would've usually shouted at him for that. Maybe punched him too.

"Mike…" Hank said sympathetically. He'd seen many night guards get traumatised by what they saw here. It didn't shock him that Mike was acting this way. "C'mon, Mike…time to go home…"

Finally, Mike moved. He turned noiselessly, his hat covered his eyes, and started walking out slowly. Hank watched him go, muttering to him, "And, uh, congrats on another night…"

Shut up. He didn't have the right to say that. Only Phone Guy did.

He didn't dare to look at Phone Guy's murderers.

The walk out of the restaurant felt so long. Once he did reached the outside, he found that it was still raining. Pouring, even. How fitting. His purple shirt was wet immediately, sticking to him, and water dripped from his hat. His head was lowered; that wasn't rain wetting his face. Mike's eyes stung all over again and his throat closed up and his gut twisted and wrenched and his numb body began shaking; not from the cold, of course. What little strength he had left was put to good use in keeping him from collapsing to his knees in the wet parking lot.

His sobbing started out small at first, a basic reaction, then became louder and louder until Mike Schmidt's head was tilted back and he was wailing up to the heavens, crying harder than he ever had since his father - his past idol, the only other person to praise him and tell him he'd done a good job before Phone Guy had come along - had died too.

' _Too'. It was 'too'. Because Phone Guy was dead and he was never going to meet him like he planned._

Mike Schmidt stood there for what felt like hours, sobbing and wailing and weeping and screaming and crying over all he'd lost and all he'd never had in the first place.

…

 **Author's note:**

 **You'd be surprised what a stranger's words can do for someone who has given up all hope left and how much that stranger can mean to that someone.**

 **Because Phone Guy meant a lot to Mike.**

 **He meant a damn lot.**


End file.
